Unearthing the Inevitable
by Sarenaria
Summary: What if the original vessel of the Leviathans, Castiel, could hold them? What if they still could fight and destroy in this body, with Castiel acting as a bystander who could do nothing to change it? Sam and Dean are faced with two options: destroying their best friend and saving the world (again), or failing, and leaving their race for dead. (Alt. ending to the Leviathans; 7.01 )
1. Gravity of the Situation

**Chapter One**

Dean Winchester sat on the rickety stool that could have been crafted decades ago by a drunken hand, hunched over the wooden table at Bobby's house, various bottles carelessly littering the surface. One arm was set on the counter, fingers tightening against it, knuckles white, and the other one raised, hands to his lips with a bottle of beer clenched in his fist. The glassy luster reflected the dim light that reflected the dying light which flickered weakly against the suffocating darkness. Soon enough, this small light would fade as well.

Sam Winchester was seated on the opposite end; hand pressed against his forehead, shadowing his eyes which stared unseeingly into the dark. Grief and confusion pointlessly punctured the normal, reasonable glare the eyes usually gave off. He could not comprehend how the events had come down to this. When did the lying initially ensue? When did Castiel sever the line of trust and dipped his wings in the blood of a demon? This action had left him as a vehicle, a double-meatsuit— a powerful one at that, for an insanely powerful enemy: the Leviathans.

Dean was not thinking. He just stared. There was nothing in his eyes; they were dead, as he felt. He could have been killed a long time ago and existed by feeding on the fury and hatred he produced on instinct. However, there was no fury under those furrowed brows and dark eyes now; there was an expression that could most closely be labeled as apathy, but covered something far different underneath.

"Dean…" Sam finally decided to speak up, his tentative voice cracking as the eyes caught sight of his brother. The break that Castiel's betrayal and possession created would not be resolved, no matter how much time would have passed since the event. How much longer would his brother last before a final break would split him open?

"Sam," Dean said, voice cracking, shutting his eyes and shaking his head, "just…don't say anything." With a second thought in his demand, he asked Sam, "How are you doing?"

Sam had no alternative but to lie, to exist as if he was not haunted by the hallucinations from the wall Castiel crumbled. At the time where Dean needed him most, as did potentially the rest of the world, Sam would convince himself and his brother that it was okay on his end. "Better," Sam said shortly, knowing better than to focus on this. The blow was not as heavy from the problem with Castiel, and so his mind was clearer. "Dean, we need to do something about this. Look, you saw what happened, Cas is still in—"

Dean stood up with such force that his chair was thrown backwards, slamming onto the dirty, age-worn floor-boards. A loud bang reverberated in response off the walls, silencing Sam and causing him to flinch.

"Cas is dead," Dean said stiffly, each word escaping his lips with such pain that it was impossible to not be material. "He's dead, Sam. Gone. He's not coming back. You saw what the Leviathans did to him and you heard what those sons of bitches said."

"Dean, just…just listen to me for a second, man," Sam said, turning his full body towards the wounded animal that was his brother. "Look, what would you say if— no, Dean, come back!"

Dean no longer would listen to him. He decided this as he headed for the door to escape Bobby's house which contained his caring brother— which was what he was running from. He just didn't want to care anymore; he wanted it all to be over. _Cas isn't our friend anymore, I don't care about him, _he would repeatedly tell himself, like a broken record, but every time it was thought he believed it less. Dean could not even summon enough strength to dare himself to hope for a brighter outcome to their situation. He knew that if he started believing it would all be alright, the truth of the situation would throw him to the ground and he knew he would not be able to get up ever again.

"Dean, please, you have to listen to me," Sam said, his irritation growing and mingling with his fears, "Dean! Dean, Cas didn't give up on you when you tried to say yes to Lucifer, remember that? And that was as…almost as stupid as what Cas did, right? It would have caused the same body count, almost! We need to stop him, Dean, just as he stopped you…" His words trailed away. He could not reason with his brother.

Just as Dean placed his hand on the doorknob, he was forced to leap backwards as Bobby Singer, his hat lowered over his eyes like always, stepped into the room, a brown bag tucked between his arm and side.

Slightly taken aback by Dean's movement toward the door that lead to the external night, "And where the hell do you think you're going, ya idgit?" Bobby demanded, quickly shutting the door as Dean stared at it, hatred marring the deep lines of his face.

"Out," Dean replied.

"Oh, fat lot good that'll do. Gonna go brood some more? Fantastic. Actually, ya know what?" Bobby said, a fiery glaze in his eye, "Why don't ya just mope around on the table instead, huh? At least we know you won't get yourself into any more trouble other than in a hangover tomorrow. That's where I left you, ain't it? What you've been doin' since I was out?"

"Bobby…" Dean hissed, muscles in his jaw tensing. "Let me out."

"Well, I ain't stoppin' you from going out. All I'm sayin' is that it won't save Cas," Bobby said patiently, the fierce expression on his face displaying the trials he had gone through and the hardness of the tough façade that he presented for his adopted sons.

"Cas can't be saved!" Dean exclaimed, the irritation of the topic continuously cropping up causing a raise in his voice. "Can't you all just shut up about it? Those Leviathans are just gonna ride his ass into oblivion—oh, and bring some few thousand innocent, dead people with him!"

"We can stop him," Sam piped up, noting the fact that Dean at least opened his ears at last and pouncing on the chance to knock sense into him.

Dean turned and looked at his younger brother, the one he had protected all his life and kept close to no matter what problems pulled them apart. The hopelessness that emanated from his eyes choked Sam. He wanted to slap Dean in the face and scream for him to focus; yell and shake him until he got his older brother back that could withstand everything. Who was this man standing before him, posing as the strong boy he had looked up to all his life? But he knew this certainly would not bear fruit and would only cause an unnecessary skirmish which would do more damage than good.

"How?" Dean asked.

"Well," Sam said, in a quick tone so that Dean's attention would not slip from him again, "Well, Dean, look. The Leviathans, or Cas, just left us alone, didn't they? Sure, they said that they'd be back for us, but there has to be something left for them to do that! Leave us alone, I mean. There must be something left in Cas; a bit of affection or, or some sort of I don't know, guilt. _Something! _Just anything. If we can bring Cas back out for just a little while longer," Sam's features pulled together and eyebrows curved upward in the lost-puppy expression that always made Dean withdraw, "we can end this!"

"Yeah, except one problem," Dean said, anger powering his words, "the body isn't breaking under the Leviathans anymore, and we don't have Jack squat about what can kill him!"

"Yeah, we didn't have Jack squat about what could kill Cas God version," Bobby corrected, setting the brown bag down on the table, "But now that he's got all those purgatory souls outta him, we could stand a chance. I mean, we don't know how powerful he is yet, and maybe _just_ maybe we've got what it takes."

"_Maybe?_" Dean said incredulously, "Maybe? Bobby, come on, you of all people would be the last to say that."

"It's not like I'm suggestin' we go into battle with blindfolds, princess," Bobby replied heatedly.

"C'mon man, don't start that again with m—"

"All I'm sayin' is," Bobby said, easily overriding Dean's small comment, "we still have a chance to get those things outta Cas. I don't know how yet, but we'll try everythin' in the book and research nice and good."

"Research nice and good, yeah?" Dean said, chuckling without amusement, his deep voice dipping into a growl as he paced the room and sat down once again in his seat opposite to Sam, almost hissing. "If _it_ doesn't come back before we finish _researching_ one of the most freakin' powerful things in the history of forever, of course; 'cause that's entirely possible: getting killed before we do anything."

Sam couldn't help but notice the fact that Dean called Cas an _it,_ not that it explicitly was more than an _it. _However, this still was painful.

"Way to go on the optimism, Dean," Bobby snorted, easing himself on a chair beside the boy, "that's the way to go. Keep it up."

He then leaned in closer to Dean, who kept his eyes fixated on the ground, unable to look at the two people in the room for fear of them recognizing that he was hurting. Of course, it was obvious, but he needn't show it any more than he could restrain it. He displayed his anger and hopelessness and this was enough— he would not display his grief to the public eye to be gawked at with pity.

"Look, Dean, it's all gonna be good," Bobby said in an exasperated tone, rolling his eyes. "Cas's been in a hell of a problem before. I bet I couldn't count on my fingers how many times he already died," Bobby assured him in a low tone, "don't worry. He'll be fine."

Then, Dean's glare intersected Bobby's, and a small, weak smile was offered on the older man's lips. In that moment, Dean believed him— he hadn't been wrong before, had he? Well, at least not often. Bobby knew better than to shower him with false hope that would only end submerged in an even deeper pain. He wouldn't do this to Dean, would he, unless he was positive, right? He wouldn't…

"Alright," Dean said, echoing Bobby's expression marginally, to the utmost relief as well as disbelief of Sam. "Alright. Fine. I'm not sayin' that I believe that there's even a slight chance that we can doing anything, but hey. There are lives at stake. That's what we do, you know. Saving people, hunting things," his smile broadened, but eyes died farther as he spoke the old words which he had been saying what seemed like a lifetime ago, "the family…the family business."

Despite the small smidgeon of hope that erupted in Dean's chest, a flame that could not be quenched, even with its minute size, he knew that the outcome of this would only end in an absolute pain that would never die.

**End of Chapter One**


	2. Castiel's Swan Song

**Chapter Two**

"Ah yes," the Leviathans said within Castiel, using the senses that initially were owned by Jimmy to breathe the polluted air which wafted about the bright streets, as the large crowd of people hurried wherever they wished to go. They were sluggish and fatigued, some moving at the pace that could challenge nothing but a snails'.

Oh, those easy, slow, stupid, powerless humans. They were adorable.

"Hmm…yes. This will do nicely." The Leviathans needed to feed— some would be content in quickly tearing open the next human being that walked by, but some knew better, and this imbalance within the vessel caused an uncertainty that handicapped it very slight.

However, they managed to control Castiel effortlessly, nonetheless. The angel fought and fought, but ultimately there was no way he could succeed. After all, he was simply an existence that was meant to be controlled in the first place; a blind soldier of God. Whereas the Leviathans…oh, their power exceeded the insignificant bodies of celestial intent by far. What a fool he was for believing himself capable of containing and eventually dispelling the beings in purgatory— and ridding himself of the most powerful beings in the universe?

In lively step to a song of death, the Leviathans walked toward one of the buildings: a large, redwood hued mass of bricks that appeared to be at the end of its life. Dust and chips of the rock severed themselves from it and drifted down effortlessly, coating the dirty street under it. However, the few lights that illuminated several of the windows was a dead giveaway that the building was worth claiming.

"Oh, let's check out this, Cas's, abilities," the Leviathans spoke, shoulders tensing in excitement. At his words, a small amount of onlookers were jerked from their normal path down the street and turned toward him, if only to shoot him a passing glance. However, several aspects of the meatsuit seemed to not be very welcoming to the ant-like existences which crawled through the little tunnels they crafted for themselves above ground.

The original tan color of his overcoat was splattered with scarlet. The white shirt underneath seemed as if the skin beneath the cloth had been torn with a knife several times in separate places, as the wounds bled onto the fabric in a frenzy— except the skin was in tact, and the blood was not his.

It was left over from the abilities Castiel demonstrated while he still was a deity. It was a pity the rest of the purgatory had been purged from the body— the incomparable, unchallengeable, nearly omnipotent abilities that he had possessed during this time would certainly have been useful in global domination. That was certainly too bad— but at least the Leviathans were now in control.

It was time to utilize the power the Leviathans had at their disposal.

* * *

They were all dead.

_What have I done? _Castiel thought, for a sudden, blissful and yet devastating, horrible moment he had returned.

_This is the peace I have created?_

His mind, even for a second, had cleared against the will of the Leviathans. The battle that raged within him was one that he would not be able to win.

Despite this absolute fact, he had dispelled them long enough to make sense of what he had done; to see through his own eyes while in control, rather than through the lens of a movie camera. 

_All the lives that have been lost were because of my ignorance and arrogance, weren't they? Why did everything come down to this; more violence and bloodshed? No. I never wanted this to be the result…_

A large circle of bodies surrounded the man in the trench-coat. The sidewalk was dyed crimson, bodies splattered about like dolls made of cotton stuffing with a red dye. The Leviathans would certainly have a feast once they resumed control. There were very few survivors in the disaster that generated from Castiel's effort. The simultaneous shock of these pitiful creatures did not permit them to make any move to resist against this. They simply watched as the entire street dissolved in masses of flesh masses and scarlet rivers.

Castiel let out a grunt of pain as the Leviathans churned within him; agitated, yearning for control that they would undoubtedly receive. Castiel backed against the brick wall of the building the Leviathans initially considered to destroy, his mind on fire as he struggled to maintain himself. How closely did the residents of this building cheat death?

_I must resume control, _Castiel thought as his body contorted with the pain and effort of holding so many beings which exceeded his power within him. _If I don't, even more people will die…_

Castiel clung to the chipping, aged wall, which seemed to leer at his inadequacy, for support. The pain he was experiencing was unbearable. He would not be able to hold onto them for much longer, but every moment was precious.

Within the span of few seconds, hundreds of lives could be spared, depending on the actions of the potential victims. They could run from him, hide from the fury and blinding hunger of the Leviathans. It was essential he held on—just a while longer.

_Leave, _he willed the onlookers as the screams erupted from every direction, _leave now. _

He deserved whatever fate had to offer for him, he knew this. His survival was no longer an option in the story that he took part of; it was no longer a necessity nor was it a desirable outcome. His death would be inevitable for the completion of the game. However, there was a chance that once again he would be taken pity on, wasn't there? He had been revived several times in the past, despite everything that his actions had altered. Perhaps history would once again repeat himself?

Regardless of this plausible outcome, he knew that whatever would occur would undoubtedly bring more suffering, no matter which course of action he would chose to take. His resurrection— it wasn't a blessing; it was a curse.

His eyes drifted across the unprecedented battlefield, the gravity of his actions washing over him as the wave from a tsunami might. These events could never be justified no matter how many excuses he could offer. True, the Leviathans were the ones causing the damage, but Castiel would not be able to wash the blood from his hands regardless. He was the one who opened the door to purgatory and allowed them— no, forced them entry into his vessel. It was not an obligation, it was a choice.

He needed to die. However, he knew that he could not do it by himself; he simply did not have the power. Castiel knew that all friendships that he ever had were severed by the choices he had made and the outcome of these choices, and yet, perhaps there still were people who could end this once and for all.

"And we're back!" the Leviathan's called out into the open, staring out at the crowd which had gathered to see the final act of the show. Ah, what a splendid array of assorted meatbags. True, this would serve them most generously however, it was essential for the Leviathans to be careful next time. They could not attract this much attention. But, this was simply a test run; next time it would be different. No, perhaps they should just eat everything in sight? Perhaps not… Too much conflict in one singular being.

Whatever! Now, it was show time.

**End of Chapter Two.**


	3. Preperation

**Chapter 3 **

"Come on, Sammy. Talk to me a little."

Sam Winchester's fingers curled into a fist as it pressed against the table, sliding against the splintering wood.

"Oh please, don't tell me you're doing that thing where you pretend none of this is real!"

Sam turned his aching body away from the hallucination, as if this would dispel it. He shifted the chair, sliding it across the wooden floorboards, lining it with more scars. Lucifer wasn't real. Sam had escaped Lucifer's cage at last, slid from between his fingers after such a long time of torment, with nothing but the prospect of eternal torture existing in his mind. None of this was real, it was an illusion spawned from a twisted and broken mind. There were more pressing matters that should have occupied him, like the situation with Castiel.

"You know this is real, right? I'm real. You're certainly real!" The voice laughed. He rapped his fist on the table, the haunting echoes reverberating off the walls. "You hear that? That's not real though."

Sam continued to ignore him, blocking away the distractions his mind produced as if it would nullify their existences.

"You're still in the cage, Sammy."

Sam felt his heart racing, pounding against his chest in the rhythmic beat of a drum. There was no logical way for this to be true.

"I'm in control, you know that? I always was."

What if Lucifer was right? That doubt tore at his mind, biting it, ripping reason from the equation. Sam leapt from his chair and whirled around to face Lucifer as his mind was torn from the safe-haven of reason. He was shaking, the tolerance he reserved for Lucifer dissipating rapidly. "Shut up!"

"Well, isn't that rude."

Lucifer turned his head lazily towards the door, his bored but amused eyes twinkling as he heard frantic footsteps echo across the hallway outside their room.

"Oh, looks like big brother's coming."

"Sam?" Dean called out, pulling the door open. "Who are you talking to?" There was concern in his voice, his mind flooding with the worst case scenarios. His body was tilted forward, as if preparing to leap at an unknown enemy, eyes scanning the room feverishly in attempts to pinpoint what agitated his brother.

"Uh," Sam said, eyes wide with a strange fear, "N-no one. I didn't say anything."

He quickly recomposed himself to appear casual despite the fact his hands were shaking to the extent that he could hardly pick his book up and hold it steady enough to read.

Dean glared at Sam for a moment, disbelief etched onto the deep lines of his face. Sam was lying. He had heard Sam, after all, and he certainly wasn't hallucinating himself. The remarkable bond that the two brothers shared caused Dean to easily identify the emotion that had wormed its way into the shout. There was fear in the steady tone of his voice; real fear intermingled with fury and anguish. He could not have imagined this.

"You sure, Sammy?" Dean asked, tilting his head to the side, doubt still clinging to his features. "'Cause I could've sworn I heard something."

"Uh," Sam said again, quickly sitting back down in his chair and clearing his throat. Careful to cast away any uncertainty or fear, he said, "Uh, I dunno. Maybe it was from outside. Wasn't from me, anyway." There, that was a plausible excuse.

There was a long silence.

"Yeah," Dean said after he allowed the words to sink in. "Yeah, yeah maybe. So, you're…you're alright?"

Sam offered his brother a forced grin to back up his next words. "Yeah, Dean. Sure, I feel fine. Yeah…?" he said, raising the tone on the last syllable in a question which suggested that Sam found his concern unfounded.

"Alright," Dean said, sighing, forcing the thoughts which defied reason from his mind. "I'm glad to hear that at least one thing is going well, right?" He looked up at Sam, flashing a half grin with eyes that demonstrated no amusement.

Sam willed for Dean to believe him, to trust his lie and accept it as fact. He was suffering to an extent that it seemed to transfer onto Sam, making simply looking at Dean almost physically painful. Sam could not allow himself to burden his brother with something that he could deal with alone, especially not under the current circumstances.

"On a more cheerful note," Dean said, faking enthusiasm with a sarcastic smile that narrowed his eyes. Dean tossed the newspaper that he held tucked under his arm upon the rough surface of the worn table, the headline leering at Sam, captivating him and forcing his eyes to examine it.

Sam snatched the bundle of papers from its comfortable position on the table as he felt his heart lurch, horror submerging him.

"Whole Street Blown to Shreds?" Sam read, eyebrows curling upward in concern as he scanned the article, hungrily consuming every detail.

"Man in a bloody trench coat…?" Sam muttered, the gravity of the situation pouring over him.

"Yeah," Dean said, collapsing on one of the chairs which stood nearby, "Forty-five casualties. That's a lot."

Sam found himself shaking his head in disbelief, confusion and worry swelling at his heart. "Wow. Dean, we need to do something about this. We can't just let this go! Not that we would, but…this is getting really bad. We need to act now."

"Damn straight," Dean said, leaning in towards Sam, the fiery light of hatred dancing in his eye, intense and fanatical, one that would accompany a man who was insane, causing his brother to avert his gaze. "People are dyin' and that's where we come in, isn't it?"

* * *

"Do we have everything?" Dean asked his comrade as Sam struggled to slam the top of the trunk downwards onto the car.

"Um, yeah. Looks like. We have the colt, Ruby's knife, silver," Sam listed, pulling the trunk back up for a final time while shifting through the items available to them. "Let's see…yeah, holy water, rock-salt, normal salt, and as much things as we could find."

"One of these are bound to work," Dean said, determination creeping into his tone. However, this determination was simply a façade. None of these would work, would they? He didn't voice his suspicions. It was unnecessary.

"You two are complete idgits, you know that?" Bobby fumed, his worry and agitation marked by the downward creases of his forehead. "You ain't got a clue on what'll kill it."

"Well, somethin's gotta work," Dean pointed out, "and we'll draw all the symbols and crap we can find when we trap him."

"Yeah, well, alright," Bobby said in a voice that displayed his annoyance, "but d'ya know where the thing even is?"

"Well," Sam said, leaning against the impala's shell which glinted slightly as a result of the light which poured from a nearby streetlamp. "We think Cas will come to us soon enough. Well," Sam paused, "the Leviathans, I mean. We have a good idea where he might be anyway, though. He just wiped out an entire street a few hours ago."

Dean nodded in agreement, the torture that convoluted his mind mirrored slightly in the intense glare his eyes produced. "Anyway, we're guessing that whatever part of Cas that's left in there…the Leviathans will want to destroy. Besides, we're the only ones who know about these assholes, so there already must be a prize on our heads."

"Yeah, but, I can't just—" Bobby protested, frowning, the care and love he felt towards the two boys he considered his sons powering the strength of his arguments. If either of them got hurt or died before Bobby, he knew that he would not be able to take it. If both were gone…He did not even want to consider the possibility. The pain that stemmed from the thought which could easily become a reality was more frightening than any supernatural being he could fight against.

"Bobby," Sam said patiently, taking a moment to bring his lips together and sigh heavily through his nose. "Just trust us, okay? I mean, he'll want us dead one way or another. We'll try and hunt him down, for one," Sam's calm, slow voice seemed to make the older man withdraw slightly. "So, he'll come to us and try to kill us anyway. We just thought it'd be better to be prepared for when that time comes."

Bobby opened his mouth to protest, but when nothing came out, he closed it. He had no argument against this. "Well, alright. I don't agree with your stupid, suicidal plan, but I mean it's not like I can stop you. But you ain't goin' without me."

"Thanks Bobby," Sam said, smiling at him slightly, relief spreading through his body..

"Yeah whatever," Bobby responded, rolling his eyes and pushing the haunting doubts at the front of his mind as far to the back as he could force them. "Anyway, were you sayin' that…Cas wiped out a street, or something? Where?"

"Oh, yeah, he did," Sam said, quickly straightening himself. "But I don't remember where, exactly. Let me go get the newspaper for you," he said, quickly rushing back into Bobby's house.

Once inside, Sam quickly cast around his vision for the newspaper. Interestingly enough, he spotted it on the floor. Confusion swarmed within him as Sam walked towards it. He had left it on the table before, hadn't he? How had it ended up on the floor?

However, he didn't take too much time to focus on this. Obviously it must have been displaced, with everyone bustling around and whatnot. With his mission accomplished in retrieving the newspaper, Sam made his way over to the door.

And then, he heard it. It was the voice that once brought with it a small sense of security, of sanctuary, of hope. It was the voice that once meant that there was someone watching over them, someone who cared and genuinely wanted to help and had the capability to. It was the voice of a friend who grew corrupted with the extremities of war and turned away from the white purity of heaven. Now, the voice was contorted, twisted; a high-pitched mess of laughter and hatred.

"Hello, Sam," Castiel said, the merciless smile never fading from his lips. "Its time to get this party started, what do you say?"

**End of Chapter 3**


End file.
